


Star Catching

by chucks_prophet



Category: Rocketman (2019)
Genre: Bernie is Nervous, Cute, Dinner, Elton is Confused, Fix It For The Ship That Should've Sailed, Fluff, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Makeup, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, t for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24159934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: Elton’s eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t stop him. Bernie never lets Elton read an unfinished draft.Every lyric he’s ever given him has been thoroughly thought through and considered. Not because Elton’s career relies on it, but because Bernie’s a bloody brilliant songwriter. Everything he writes is a reflection of himself. It’s like he’s going back and editing an entry in his diary right now. It just doesn’t make sense.Elton doesn’t recognize it immediately. He’s spent years rehearsing it like a set, pushing it down like it never existed. So when he does, it nearly knocks the wind out of him.Bernie’s insecure.
Relationships: Elton John/Bernie Taupin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	Star Catching

It was different, no doubt. The last seven albums have been consistently upbeat for the most part. Even if they were singed with sadness, it was a light, sophisticated char - like a medium rare steak at the Los Fuegos in Florida.

But Elton wouldn't be Elton if he didn't embrace different. This is a man who dons sequined tuxedos and giant bird feathers like they're protective football padding. (In a way, they are. Every show is like a new game. And if he's gonna score a touchdown, he's doing it in style—hoping, in the process, all the glam distracts from his constant, lifelong feeling of inadequacy.)

"What, no good?"

Elton snaps his head back up. Night may have fallen fast on this sleepy London town again, painting it variations of dark blue and purple, but it never falls on Bernie’s eyes. Elton envies the man; it’s like he has this natural ring light behind both his eyes to preserve their sky blue pigment.

Elton spends a lot of time thinking about the sky. Time is different in space. In space, a star burns so bright and so fast, a new one starts to form shortly thereafter in its place. But on Earth, we still see these stars. Even after they're long dead, they've left a permanent tattoo on the sky.

Elton's been in space for a while. Bernie has been on Earth, reminding him of his value and worth—and likely will long after his star dies.

“No. No, no, of course not,” he’s quick to correct—or so he thought until Bernie’s leaning closer until his long, wispy hair is kissing his rosy cheeks. “No, it’s just… unexpected.”

“May I…?”

Elton’s eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t stop him. Bernie _never_ lets Elton read an unfinished draft. Every lyric he’s ever given him has been thoroughly thought through and considered. Not because Elton’s career relies on it, but because Bernie’s a bloody brilliant songwriter. Everything he writes is a reflection of himself. It’s like he’s going back and editing an entry in his diary right now. It just doesn’t make sense.

Elton doesn’t recognize it immediately. He’s spent years rehearsing it like a set, pushing it down like it never existed. So when he does, it nearly knocks the wind out of him.

Bernie’s insecure.

“Bernie, it’s a beautiful song,” Elton reassures, “it just took me by surprise—”

“Lightning.”

“Pardon?”

“Lightning strikes, not a storm.”

Elton shrugs. “I guess it does sound better, yeah, but—”

“And when it strikes, it’s random and deafening, but electric.”

“What’s going on, man?”

Bernie bites his lip—a habit that’s either new or one Elton just hadn’t bothered to notice over the years being too consumed with his self-image. "You remember that night we were on a rooftop like this in London?” he asks. “We couldn’t afford a candlelight dinner with a view after a meeting with another hotshot artist, so we just stumbled home after that night with Dave Godin..."

"Of course I remember. You told me you loved me. What, are you retracting that to save a little face?" Elton laughs, but it’s strained and laced with fear.

"No, not at all,” Bernie says with confidence. “I meant what I said... just not... entirely."

That, of course, does no favors for the knot in Elton’s chest. "What? Go on, then."

"Elton, when I said I didn’t love you in that way… I thought you'd fancied me because I cared. Because I know that’s all you’ve ever wanted is for someone to care. So that's why I said what I did…. I _do_ love you in that way…. I just lied because I didn’t want you to regret falling in love with me for the wrong reasons.

That's why I wrote 'Your Song' that same night. And this song as an apology to that night six years ago. To think I hurt you in any way with that rejection, Reggie… I couldn’t bear it anymore.”

"You massive _cock_ ,” Elton scoffs, despite the knot in his chest blossoming into a flower. "I leaned in to kiss you _because_ you care. Because you were there for every breakdown between the Troubadour and now. Because you sat through the B-side of _Tap Root Manuscript_ when I was convinced Neil Diamond was the solution to your writer’s block after the first album _—”_

“I quite like the B-side.”

“The B-side is _dreadful,_ Bernie,” Elton shoots back. “Point is, you may think I don't know what love is, but I sure as Hell learned quick when I met you.”

Bernie’s mouth parts, but before he can get another word in, Elton’s back at it:

“And if you _ever_ do what you think is in my best interest when I’m clearly spiraling out of control and am in _no way_ capable of loving someone else—let alone myself— _again_ , I _won’t_ hesitate kissing you.”

“What’s stopping you now, then?”

“Well, I’d like for us to have more than _one_ kiss after tonight.”

Bernie laughs, but snaps his mouth shut just as quick. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Laughing at hate crimes now, alright,” Elton says, but there’s no malice behind it.

While Bernie’s still caught off-guard, he snatches the paper back containing the lyrics to the new song. He mulls it over one more time. “Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word”. Management’s not gonna like a lengthy title, but fuck ‘em. He looks back up to catch Bernie’s famous half-cocked smile illuminated by the waning candlelight—the one that’s always been reserved for Elton—and nods.

“Yeah,” he agrees with a smile of his own, “I think lightning’s more appropriate.”


End file.
